


A Bird without a Song

by chilly_flame



Series: Unfinished [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 16:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilly_flame/pseuds/chilly_flame
Summary: Nigel makes an interesting discovery about Miranda.





	A Bird without a Song

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to AllyC13 for the inspiration on this one, who requested "basically 'Unfinished' but the other way round?" "Unfinished" has been a favorite among some readers, so hopefully this retelling will make for an interesting story. No one dies, obviously. As always, I extend my appreciation for my steadfast beta, Xander.

Nigel wraps up the last of his work for the night, or at least puts away what he doesn’t need to finish. The work is never really complete, but this week and next will be the closest he will ever come to truly being done. His position at _British Runway_ begins one month from today, and Miranda has not only allowed but encouraged a full two weeks off between gigs. It will be the longest time he will ever, in his entire career, not have to worry about work.

Of course he could worry, but he is choosing not to. _British Runway_ has been in very good hands for a decade, and Nigel knows the entire staff well. They respect him, and their current chief is leaving of her own accord, to spend more time with her teenaged children and aging parents. It’s not something Nigel could ever imagine doing, but Isadore Ryan-Quincy is a very wealthy woman who will be perfectly happy doing other things outside the walls of her posh Carnaby office.

Miranda did not exactly get him the job. When she’d asked if he wanted to throw his hat into the ring, he’d gaped at her, not unlike a fish mouthing at food at the surface of a pond. Moments later, he’d said, “Yes,” and marveled that he sounded normal. He hadn’t screamed or cried, at least at the time, nor did he gasp, or smile. He’d just watched her, and she’d nodded.

“Very well. I’ll keep you posted.”

Forty-two days later, he got a phone call, then another phone call, then an invitation to visit the London offices, then two more phone calls. Then an offer arrived by courier, after which two more revised offers were delivered. Then he had a new job, and a new flat, and a new set of underlings, and one fewer boss.

Four years after his greatest disappointment, Miranda has finally paid him back. Curiously, he realizes today is the two month anniversary of the folding of James Holt International. In 2009 James found his way to Pucci designing what he had learned he was actually best at: accessories. His failure was more an evolution than anything; a few lackluster seasons was all it took for him to decide to make a change. JHI continued without him, but it did not last, and the tanking economy did a fair amount to usher in its demise. Nigel wonders if perhaps his leadership would have been a greater asset to the company than Jacqueline’s, or at least kept it from going off the rails. He will never know.

Sometimes, say after two or more bourbons, he is secretly grateful for Miranda’s little coup. Overall he has forgiven her, but only after he’d signed on the dotted line for _British Runway_ did he really put the last of his bitterness to bed.

On his way out of the office, he glances in at Miranda. She looks up at him, and smiles, setting her glasses down on the Book. That’s enough of an invitation. It’s just past 7, and he has time. “Hope you won’t be burning the midnight oil tonight,” he says with a grin.

“No, just finishing up a few things. I see you’re taking a half-day now that you’re leaving us,” she says, and Nigel laughs. There is no bite to her comment, nor to her smirk. “I’d ask you to dinner but I have plans. What are you doing Saturday?”

He’s a little taken aback. They haven’t socialized much outside work events lately. “Nothing special. You?”

“I thought you might like to meet--meet me somewhere for supper. I want to talk to you about something.”

Her language twigs suspicion in his brain; this sounds weird. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes, yes, everything’s fine. It’s not something bad. It’s quite--it’s quite good. I think it’s good.”

Miranda does not often stutter, or repeat herself. He hasn’t noticed this particular tell for many, many years, and knows instantly that she is seeing someone, and she is planning to introduce him. He tries not to make it obvious that he totally sees through her. “I want to know something good. You tell me when and where.”

“I’ll let you know tomorrow,” she says, and it’s sweet that she is going to consult with her new beau over where they’ll have dinner. He can’t wait to meet the man who has finally snagged Miranda Priestly after an extended bout of solitude. Before the extremely messy split with Stephen, Miranda had been married and divorced twice over the course of twenty years, alongside a constant string of romances with eligible bachelors in between. One relationship would end, and another would begin nearly simultaneously to take its place. Not so after the last Mr. Priestly. She’d seemed to give up romance altogether, but looking back over the last few months, he can recognize a spring in her step. At the very least it’s been a nice collection of days during which she has been less irritable than usual.

“I can’t wait.” He raises an eyebrow at her on his way out the door.

\---

In the morning, he comes into the office early. He’s got an 8am call with Testino about an upcoming shoot for the Hollywood issue, which he promised Miranda he’d oversee until the very last second. His mind is already on the thousand and one details he’ll have to transfer over to the new creative director, when he notices Miranda is already in her office.

Not that he’s surprised to see her there, but there’s a… a stillness to her form that is unexpected. He can only see the back of her head, as she stares out the window. Rain has descended on the city, and the clouds are low; he sees a flash of lightning in the distance. She does not flinch, not even when a rumble of thunder erupts overhead.

He steps into the doorway, noticing the bag and coat tossed haphazardly onto the floor next to the desk. “Miranda?”

She doesn’t move.

“Miranda,” he says again, this time more firmly. The word bounces back at him off the windows. Voices are not meant to be spoken at such a volume in this space, not ever.

She turns in her chair, and Nigel exhales through his nose. He controls his features as he takes in her clothes; the white shirt, the black vest, the classic black trousers and red Christian Lous, all slightly wrinkled, but otherwise in fine condition. The problem is that these are the same clothes Miranda had on yesterday. She wears little make-up, and her hair, while not awful, hasn’t been combed in some time.

He goes to her, almost kneels at her feet. “What’s wrong?”

She swallows, and stares at him some more. “I had to leave her there,” she says.

His first thoughts are of Caroline and Cassidy. They are fifteen, and he is sure that this week they are with their father. “Who?”

“She seemed fine, or she said she was fine, anyway. She was fine, and then she got sick, and she was in so much pain--my God, it was like torture--”

“Miranda, who are you talking about?”

She blinks at him. “Her parents are still her emergency contacts, and they flew in early today. I had to leave her there.” Miranda’s eyes are wide, almost wild. “She was so sick; her appendix burst. She could actually die and I wouldn’t even know it.”

Nigel takes his life into his hands, and grasps her shoulders firmly. “Who?”

“Andy,” she breathes. “She seemed fine. How could I not have noticed that she wasn’t fine?”

“Andy,” he repeats, and thinks and thinks and thinks. What an odd thing, for him to even consider the girl from four years ago, who vanished from his life in a cloud of perfume and taffeta. “Andy.”

“She hasn’t told them, of course, and I want to respect her wishes. She’s not ready for anyone to know, not at home, and certainly not at work. Can you imagine what her editors would say if they found out? She’d be laughed out of a job. I can’t destroy her career, not now that she’s just taking off, just taking flight--” Her voice starts to take on a hysteria he’s never heard from her, in this room or anywhere else, ever. “But that won’t matter if she dies, will it?”

He’s listening to what she’s saying, but he can’t stop picturing Andy Sachs in her cerulean sweater, with hunched shoulders and bad hair, can’t stop remembering how much Miranda had _deflated_ following her departure. Nigel is thinking, thinking, thinking about Andy Sachs, thinking all this time how four years ago he’d thought Miranda had felt badly about ruining his life, when she was really just fucking heartbroken that the girl who worked for her walked away.

“Andy Sachs,” Nigel says, and wonders if Miranda will slap him across the face for getting it wrong.

She doesn’t slap him.

\---

Fifteen minutes later, they exit a cab and climb the steps into Nigel’s building. Miranda is utterly silent. “Take a shower,” he instructs once they’re inside, pointing to the full bathroom down the hall. “There are towels on the rack. I’ll get you a new shirt, at least.”

He rifles through his closet and finds a buttoned shirt that will suit her, along with a scarf and a long necklace he’d planned to send to his sister in Rhode Island for Christmas. He believes that adding a little flair to her clothes will comfort Miranda, but to be honest, he’s uncertain how to handle her in this state. It’s new, and unwelcome. She’d barely spoken in the cab, and Nigel didn’t know what to ask.

He cracks the bathroom door as the water runs, and leaves the hanger inside the room. He does not linger.

Fifteen minutes later, Miranda emerges, face clean. For once, she looks middle-aged. He can’t tell if it’s because of the lack of makeup or the fact that she hasn’t slept and may have been crying for most of the night. She’s wearing his selections, and the same trousers from yesterday, but her feet are bare. She sits heavily in the leather wing chair across from him. Quickly he pushes a side table in her direction, careful not to dislodge the mug of coffee and the the plate of food atop it. It’s not much; a banana and some instant oatmeal with cinnamon, but he is certain she has not eaten.

“No,” she says. “I’m not--”

Nigel takes the banana from the plate and peels it, right in front of her face. “Eat it.”

Her hand trembles as she reaches up, but she does as she’s told. A few minutes in, he is concerned that she’ll be sick, but she breathes through it, and finishes almost everything. She pushes the table away and fairly hovers over the hot coffee, clutched in both hands.

“You going to start talking?” he asks. He suspects she will not respond to softness or sympathy.

“I saw her on the street, five months ago. We’ve been having an affair.” Miranda does not look up at him when she speaks. She appears to be elsewhere; body present, mind’s eye drifting to a happier, sweeter time. “I kept waiting for her to leave me. I thought she’d break it off when she realized what a mistake it was. I certainly didn’t expect this.”

Another day, if Andy lives, he will ask her to fill in the blanks between “I saw her on the street” to “having an affair.” He presses his curiousity down, ignores it till it recedes. “Miranda, we should go to the hospital, right now.”

“I promised her that no one would find out--”

“These are extenuating circumstances.” She shakes her head distantly, but he rolls his eyes. “Listen, if she loses her job, you can just let her move in with you, right? Pay all her bills? She can be your loving partner who writes the great American novel through your spectacular patronage.” He takes her bag and grabs her arm with his free hand, dragging her to her feet.

“Her parents--”

“They’ll survive the news.”

Once they make it out of the apartment, he hails a cab inside thirty seconds. “Why would she lose her job?” he asks, picking up an earlier thread of their conversation.

“She’s only been at ‘The Cut’ a few weeks. If they knew her connections, she’d never survive in that landscape.”

“Oh,” Nigel says, frowning. That actually makes sense. Miranda appears on the website of _New York’s_ fashion and celebrity section at least once or twice a month, depending on the time of year. They both worship and revile her equally. He also understands why Andy would be a great fit there; as much gossip as they post, they also publish deep dives on interesting topics. It’s a perfect landing spot for someone like Andy, who knew nothing of fashion back in the day, but she sure as hell dug in and figured it out fast. Four years ago, she’d glowed once Nigel polished her up; he can only imagine the shimmer that’s come with maturity and experience. If she’s lured Miranda into her bed, it must be considerable. “She’ll be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”

The cab pulls up to New York Presbyterian, and when Nigel exits, Miranda does not move. “What if she’s--what if--”

Nigel leans inside. “You need to be there. Now. You’ve never backed down from a challenge before; today is no time to start. Come on.” He turns and abandons her, hoping she’ll follow. He passes the emergency room on the right, and by the time he reaches the information desk, she’s beside him. “Know where we’re going?” Miranda’s nod is terse, and she turns and heads for an elevator.

It takes a while to get to the room on the fifth floor. The door is closed. The air around them smells of disinfectant, and Miranda sways next to him. He steps forward and knocks so softly he can barely hear it himself. A moment later, the door opens out, and a man Nigel has never seen before pokes his head through it. He blinks repeatedly when he sees Miranda; he clearly knows who she is. “Hi, I’m Nigel Kipling, a friend of Andy’s. We heard she was ill, and wanted to come by to check on her.”

The man is so stunned he has no idea how to respond.

“Is she all right?” Miranda gasps, and Nigel hopes she’s not about to collapse.

“She’s out of surgery,” he says. “She’s not awake yet, though.” The man frowns. “I’m sorry, what the hell are you doing here? How did you even know--”

From within the room, a woman pushes the door open wider, and Nigel sees Andy in her face right away. She’s shorter, and rounder, but her smile is the same, and her eyes are brown and warm. “Richard, if they’re here to visit Andy, let them in.” She recognizes Miranda too, Nigel is certain, but she doesn’t seem to care. They’re led inside, and Nigel gets a chair for Miranda to sit down in near the foot of Andy’s bed. He practically pushes her into it.

Andy doesn’t look great; her skin is chalk white, and there’s an IV taped to her hand. Her lips are chapped and dry. “How long has she been out?”

“A couple of hours. She was in recovery for a while, and they said it’s normal for her to take time to wake up, because of the anesthesia,” Andy’s mom says. She hasn’t introduced herself to either Nigel or Miranda. He reaches back into his memory and wants to call her Maureen. “I’m glad you’re here. We want to surround her with as much love as we can, so she’ll get well. Isn’t that right, honey? Can you hear your friends are here?”

Nigel glances over at Miranda. She sits very still, staring up at Andy’s face, searching for something.

“Want to talk to her?” Andy’s mom asks. “Let her know you’re here?”

Nigel watches Miranda reach out to place a hand at Andy’s feet, where they’re covered by the hospital sheet. He crosses to the other side of the bed and leans down. “Hey Six, it’s Nigel. I brought Miranda. She couldn’t stay away,” he says, and watches Miranda clutch at Andy, fingers clasping desperately. “She really wants to talk to you.”

Richard steps closer. “Who called you?” he asks, and Nigel is disappointed that he’s doing this now, when they’re all in the room together. “How did you know Andy was here?”

Nigel takes a deep breath, and tries this: “I was with her. We were out at dinner--”

“I called the ambulance myself last night, when I found her sick in the bathroom of my home,” Miranda says, as if she was never afraid of telling Andy’s parents a thing. “I stayed with her here, till I knew your car arrived.”

Andy’s mom nods. “I’d wondered who sent the limo to the airport to get us. It was very kind of you, Miranda,” she says.

“What the hell?” Richard says. “What the hell is going on?”

“Richard, why don’t you and Nigel go get us some coffee? I want to sit here with Miranda for a few minutes and talk.”

If Andy wasn’t unconscious, Nigel thinks Richard Sachs would give Miranda Priestly a very unpleasant piece of his mind, not to mention a punch, right here in the hospital room. He’s riling himself up, stepping forward, until Andy’s mom--really, he needs to know her name--gives him a look that could melt steel. While that doesn’t diffuse the anger, it redirects it, and he turns to leave. Nigel glances back at Miranda once, as she stands and leans down over Andy’s face, stroking her skin delicately. He looks away, because the tenderness in her expression makes his stomach ache.

\---

Nigel and Richard Sachs do not get to know each other during their ten minutes together. Instead, Nigel sits in an uncomfortable orange chair in a white hallway, and watches Richard Sachs pace back and forth, muttering to himself. Nigel hears a few scattered words that amuse him; “devil,” “hurricane,” “miserable excuse,” “fucking what does she think,” and a few others too garbled for him to decipher.

Finally, Richard turns to him. “I should have known she’d never be able to get away from that walking nightmare.”

Nigel sighs. He goes to the coffee machine, and shoves a few dollars into it. He hands a cup of black coffee to Richard and says, “I can’t carry them all.” He collects three more cups and somehow balances them as he makes his way back down the hallway to the door. He glances over his shoulder at Richard, who stares at him blankly. “Give me a hand, please,” Nigel says. It’s not a request.

To his relief, Richard listens, and Nigel walks through the door to find Miranda and Andy’s mother huddled together next to the bed. They’re holding hands. Nigel sets the coffees down and passes one to Miranda. She sips gratefully from the cup, even though it probably tastes awful.

“Richard, you and I are going to take a walk,” Andy’s mom says.

“Maureen--”

Nigel cheers himself for remembering her name correctly. “We’ll be right back.” Maureen leans over Andy’s unconscious form and kisses her forehead. “Love you, honey.”

She walks straight out of the room, and Richard glares at each of them for a couple of seconds before disappearing through the door.

“That was fun,” Nigel says. “I take it he’s the reason Andy didn’t want to talk about things at home.”

“Mm,” Miranda says, and strokes Andy’s arm. “Apparently Maureen has known for a while. Andy spoke of me, now and then. Mothers can be very perceptive.”

“And she never told her dad, then.”

Miranda snorts. “No. We both know why.”

“Yeah,” Nigel replies, considering the many reasons Richard would have to dislike Miranda. He rubs his head, and sighs. “I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

“It doesn’t matter. I know he loves her. He only wants what’s best for his child, and I am certainly not ‘what’s best’.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you, Miranda? I mean, you’re here. You…” he pauses, not sure what to assume about their relationship. “You care about Andy. It’s obvious.”

She turns to him, eyes sharp and full of fire. “I love her.” She breaks away from Nigel’s stunned gaze to watch Andy. “If I were stronger, I’d leave her alone. She could have a happy, normal life.”

He barely recognizes the person in front of him, telling him things about weakness and sadness. This woman is not the Miranda he knows, and he’d better remind her. “You really believe that?”

Her eyes squeeze shut in wordless response.

“If I had to guess, you probably make Andy happier than she’s ever been in her life.” Again he recalls how the girl he’d known had come alive under Miranda’s intense scrutiny, how she had flourished and preened whenever she’d received the slightest attention. “If she loves you, she’s all in. She wouldn’t give you up for anything. That’s the kind of girl she is.”

Tears start to slide down Miranda’s cheeks. She doesn’t make a sound as she nods.

Nigel puts a hand to Miranda’s back, and she startles, taking a deep breath. At once she seems to realize she’s been speaking as though Andy wasn’t in the room. She leans down and brushes her fingertips against Andy’s forehead. “Andrea, I want you to wake up.” Her voice is firm and familiar; it’s not the one she’s been speaking with for the last few hours. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” She swallows with some difficulty. “Wake up. I need your help.”

Nigel can hardly bear to look at either of them. He takes a seat and covers his face with one hand, until he hears a small groan. He looks up, and realizes that Andy is squinting in discomfort. She hisses through gritted teeth.

“That’s it, darling, wake up,” Miranda says eagerly.

Andy gets her eyes open just enough to indicate she’s conscious. She breathes hard through her nose. “Hey,” she croaks.

Miranda’s response is reed thin, barely audible. “Hey.” Then there’s silence between them, and he watches as Andy lifts one empty hand up into the air. Miranda grabs it, and holds it between her own. She leans down and presses her lips to Andy’s very softly. “You’re going to be fine,” she whispers.

“Yeah,” Andy manages. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Miranda asks.

“Being sick,” she murmurs, and her tone is almost sheepish. “My parents--were they here before?”

Miranda nods.

“I guess the cat’s outta the bag.”

“Indeed.”

Andy shuts her eyes. “Oh well. Now’s as good a time as any.” She smiles weakly. “I probably should have mentioned earlier that I didn’t feel well, huh.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Miranda soothes. “Nigel, could you retrieve Andy’s parents? I’m sure they’d like to see her,” she says.

“Of course,” Nigel says. He leans over the bed briefly. “Hey, kid. Glad to see you.”

She blinks at him, her gaze unfocused and bleary. “Oh hey, Nige,” she says, her expression shaping into one of surprise. “Thanks for being here.”

Nigel nods. He touches Miranda’s elbow once before heading for the door. He turns back for a moment, and watches Miranda lift Andy’s hand to her lips, cradling it with grateful relief.

He smiles, and marvels at the picture they make. It gives him hope for the future; both theirs, and his own.


End file.
